eolian
by and break onetwothreefourfive
Summary: he tells himself her heartbeat is just another rhythm he can't dance to.


**title**: eolian  
**author**: eithne  
**disclaimer**: not mine; not yet.  
**rating**: pg13; sexless  
**note**: thanks for the previous reviews.  
**summary**: he tells himself her heartbeat is just another rhythm he can't dance to.

•

everyone has secrets; (one secret he hopes nobody will ever discover, no, not even wilson, isn't that earth-shattering.

those who think they know him won't be surprised; they don't know him.

he can't, these images, when he thinks of this particular secret he's assailed with images:  
women (not-cuddy; not-cameron; because!),  
two, three or four-- it doesn't matter, and sometimes, a man or two.

the visual is terrible, frightening, not for the faint of heart. but it's what they're doing that makes him take a first/second/third glance over his shoulder; he doesn't feel guilty, no shame as a result of harboring this  
secret.)

gregory house is no different.

•

saturday, 9:07 a.m., his kitchen,  
cane close by, (he keeps everything within reach except people)  
feet on the floor in front of the sink:

swiftly, he raises his right arm.  
it falls just as fast,  
dead weight,  
save for precision,  
and it breaks.

it's a mess, though was expected, but, for him this part's been trouble, always.

he decides, after giving it some serious thought, that eggs are out to get him. too soft or too hard; he never can crack them just right. and egg whites? it's an egg; eat it or not. don't play with it for half an hour trying to separate the yolk from the egg. this is why men don't cook, no patience--

he hears them from the other room. it's been a while, like he could ever forget.

he dumps the eggshells into the sink and washes his hands, drying them on his shirt. cane and body are soon traveling out of the room. he's got to hear this.

stopping, abruptly, in the middle of the room, he listens. and realizes he's missed a part. one of his favorites, too. his eyes close and he gets the urge to be unhouselike. taking a deep breath, his free hand sits low on his hip.

another breath, another deep breath, and, finally, "... and he's leaving," he screams along with the song, "on the midnight train to georgia." he embraces his secret. "... i've got to be with him on that midnight train to georgia ..."

greg house's secret?

"all aboard, all aboard, all aboard!"

greg house loves motown.

"i got to go! i got to go!"

big mama thornton sends a shiver down his spine; the sex pistols' raunchiness makes him feel a gentleman; leonard cohen has him seeing poetry; motown is an amalgam of every reaction he's ever had to a note of music or the lilt of a singer's voice. his reactions are personal, very much so, and he doesn't like to talk about it. he ends up relying on his old friend projection and goes through each day seeing his faults in other people. it's annoying and sexy and completely unhealthy.

he pivots left off his cane, realizes he's out of breath, and stops. so much for living life to the fullest. half full would be okay. laughing, it's like deathbed advice. one should never give advice to someone who's dying; they'll never have time to follow it.

the bee gees interrupt his thoughts with their alarming falsettos; he turns off the stereo before they get a chance to harmonize.

he sits down at his piano. it could be his love for the large stringed instrument or the no nonsense design of the bench, but it's the most comfortable place he knows, physically and mentally. it's easy to think when his hands and brain are occupied with melody.

lately, (now&forever) it's ruined, because of cameron. good and bad and shades between, he keeps coming back to her. the monster truck not-a-date was nice, though he suspects he'd pay the same amount of money to see that side of her again. the out of her element side, at work she knows things, diseases and conditions and the confident pronunciation of eight syllable words, but outside of the hospital she's as woefully clueless as he is. it'd be refreshing if he hadn't been scared shitless.

and then, then vogler stampeded his way through the hospital and she quit, but she's back, having survived their date, which he doesn't feel bad about, not being one who wears guilt well. he ignores it for the most part, but it will surface on special occasions.

he winces as he hits the wrong key; that's when thoughts of her pop up, between his mistakes. he's curious; it's his modus operandi, his calling card that guarantees a hard and unforgiving fall. he is a one man age of reason, two hundred + some odd years after the fact, and it's not france or england, he knows, but reason shouldn't be stymied by geography or time, right and wrong exist in everything. it's a matter of finding, identifying, accepting, and moving. onward, upward, forward, to his point b.

he knows that (things have to move;  
people walk, run, skip, and jump; people drive;  
the earth rotates on its axis, twothreepoint.fourfivedegrees,  
whether people stand still or not; variation in sunlight and season;  
people are so concerned with heaven they forget about hell;  
don't worry, there's a reason for that, too.)

his heart's rattling his ribcage due to his most uncharacteristic display of life; he doesn't like it. or, he does and isn't aware.

hmm ... no, but maybe, he'd rather not, though it's too late and correlations are made, lines drawn, and not totally categorized; cameron? he tells himself her heartbeat is just another rhythm he can't dance to.

reason and cameron. there's no undying adoration, merely toleration and one-sided flirtation; no reciprocation that leads to honest conversation and affected palpitation.

he moves. to the telephone and calls her. he feels jittery like he needs a vicodin, but he's not in pain. in fact, he's a little exhilarated. in a 'call someone and hang up' sort of way.

"hello?" she answers.

game on; he says nothing, but breathes very heavily.

"house, you disappoint." she says.

his eyebrows moved north of their own volition, he swallows, "what?" he asks,

(knowing if they were face to face she'd be standing _veryclosetohim_, trying to absorb him, read the marks on his body, lines from a poem, rolling the letters around on her tongue, as if she could ever completely understand hIm).

"caller id." she responds, smugly.

a knock at his door. actually, more of a rap. a gentle rap. he swings it open.

"ah." he says, not so smugly; he's never where he wants to be.

it should've been more dramatic, curtains parting, because cameron's on the other side of his door, a stupid bland piece of wood, there's no spotlight following her movement as she walks into his home, and he wants to throw roses at her feet. instead:

"wow, that was quick." he says. sarcasm is his friend and his shield. "though--" he pauses to take a lock of her hair between his fingers, "the lady at the escort agency said you'd be a blonde."

she doesn't respond; she sees a problem. he doesn't let go of her hair; he sees an invitation.

"don't worry, you're okay. tell me this," he pauses again. he hesitates for a second, then grabs a fistful of her hair. he tugs until her head is back. he's always wanted to do that. his mouth lives vicariously through his eyes, jealous as they trail along her throat and the underside of her jaw. "i want to break you, i think. into a million pieces."

she moves her head. he pulls the fistful of hair in response.

his lips are on her neck, and as he whispers the words, "shatter on top of my body; i'll watch you recover from me." his lips drag over her pulse, his stubbled jaw grazes her skin.

"yes." she responds.

he lets go of her hair. she walks past him, watching closely, breathing loudly. and when he turns to shut the door she grabs a handful of his hair, shoving his face against the newly shut door.

"here's an idea--" she says. forcefully.

she tugs on his hair and presses her chest against his back.

"you recover from me."

she lets go of him. he turns around fast, his body rasping against hers, enjoying their movement. he leans over and kisses her, hard, his tongue in her throat because he will never recover.


End file.
